One Of Many
by Sagebush
Summary: A disturbance in the neighbourhood was nothing new, but this… this exceeded anything so far.


_**An: My first Alex Rider fanfiction. This was a piece of flash fiction to get over some writers block, and I will hopefully have some more chapters of Set In Motion and Taken By The Storm up in the near future. **_

_**NOTE: The Alan in this story is not Alan Blunt. It is just the name I was given in the prompt I used.  
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_**Hope you enjoy it. Please R&R.**_

**Reviews are love!**

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><p>A disturbance in the neighbourhood was nothing new, but this… this exceeded anything so far. Alan shook his head in disbelief as watched from the safe refuge of inside his home. A boy ran past. He had fair hair and looked to be about fourteen or fifteen years of age. Blood ran down his face.<p>

A motorbike came straight after, followed by a quad. Driving both of these vehicles were heavily built men, wearing all black. They looked like typical thug material. Alan passed a hand over his face, wearily. What was the world coming to?

_Crack! Crack! Thud._

Gun shots! For heavens sake, this was Rundum, a small town in the middle of nowhere. The biggest thing that had happed so far that month was a couple of kids shooting paints balls at someone's car.

Alan was brought by his reverie by a loud knock on the door. It took a moment for him to bring himself together, before he went to answer it. He looked through the key hole first. All he could see was a bright blue jumper. It looked like a kid. He opened the door.

It was the teenager who had ran past just moments before. Now Alan could get a closer look, he saw that the blood on his face was coming from multiple cuts. The kid had a split lip, and an impressive bruise forming on one cheek. Unlike before though, he was clutching his shoulder and his face was twisted in pain.

"Can I come in?" the boy asked. Without waiting for an answer, he stepped inside and shut the door. He seemed to sag slightly, as if in relief.

"Wha- Bu-" Alan stuttered.

The teenager seemed to collect himself. "Have you got a first aid box?" he asked. Then he looked down at his wrist, at his watch. The thing looked battered, but it seemed to be working. "You got something you can hide under? You're going to need it."

"Guns- You- Hurt!" The message got through, and Alan quickly ran into the dining room. From a cupboard on the far side, he took out a dusty looking first aid box. He turned to run back, but the kid had followed him into the room. He started to open the box, but suddenly the boy grabbed his arm.

"No time!" he yelled. "Get under the table!"

Alan hesitated for just a moment, then dived under the table, first aid box forgotten. The kid was next to him, and Alan looked at him.

"Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?" he demanded.

The boy looked back. "You might want to brace yourself," he said.

Alan gaped at him. Brace himself? For what? The uneasy silence was shattered by an explosion. The ground shook. The noise was ear splittingly loud. The heat was intense. Alan was screaming, but he couldn't hear himself. The kid was saying something. Glass shattered, shooting across the room in different directions.

Then it was over. Everything was still. Everything was silent.

The boy stood up. Alan crawled out from under the table. The boy was still saying something, but he couldn't hear. His eyes widened. Had he gone deaf? But no, a ringing was starting to permeate his ears. Sound was coming back. Vaguely, Alan was aware that he was hurt and bleeding.

"..you don't mind if I take the first aid box, do you?" the kid was saying. "Thanks. And uh, I'm sorry."

Then he was gone, disappearing through the smoke.

OoM::MoO

The next month, an anonymous envelope appeared on Alan's doorstep, addressed to him. Inside was three thousand pounds in cash. A note was tucked inside, hurriedly written in a kids scrawl.

_Sorry about the house._

He never saw or heard from the boy again.

He was just one of the many witnesses to take part in the legend that would become Alex Rider.


End file.
